A Dream of Fire and Ice
by Scribe of The Fanciful
Summary: (Imaginative title, I know) A one-shot Jaenerys drabble that is basically the last chapter of a fic I havent written yet. Jon and Dany have dreamed of each other ever since they were children, but never dared to hope that their dreams were real... Now Dany is Queen of Westeros and Jon must bend the knee... Rated T because while there are sex refs, there is no actual sex... Enjoy.
1. (Adult JonDany)

**AN: So this kind of needs some explaining…?**

 **It's basically the (one of the) final chapter (s) of a fairly standard dream!fic, you know the type, where Jon and Dany never meet but have dreams where they meet each other but they think they are just dreams…**

 **So imagine that Jon and Dany have been in this weird sort of dream communication with each other since they were kids but then Jon died (oh no) and so it stopped and they were both sad but then Dany conqured Westeros and summoned this mysterious** ** _King in the North_** **to bend the knee (kind of like she did in the show but after she kicked Cersei's ass, not before) and then this happens.**

 **The reason I'm publishing this as a drabble rather than a whole fic is quite simply beacuse I haven't actually written the rest of the fic yet! I might get round to it, I might not, but for now, enjoy...  
**

 **SXx**

* * *

 _Beautiful_ , thought Jon, _she's beautiful_.

And she was. In his dreams he'd always seen her with her hair knotted and darkened with dust, her tattered tunic patched with mismatched cloth and her britches stained with mud. When he pictured her, he always imagined her slouching, hunched over and unsure of herself, only straightening up when she wanted to make an impression.

Well she was making an impression now, that was sure.

She was wearing a gown of pure white silk that hung off her shoulders like a waterfall of frozen crystal. It clung to her figure the way that frost clings to stone, and Jon found himself able to see all the curves of her body, every turn of her flesh. Despite the shallow cup of her breasts Jon couldn't help but wonder what it would feel like to tear the gown away from her neckline and run his hands over her nakedness. For the first time since he had known her, her shoulders were thrown back and her head was held high. Her slender hands were folded neatly across her lap, adorned with finely woven bracelets of the purest silver, but they were nothing to the silver of her hair, which shone like the fullness of the moon. Only her eyes were the same as he remembered – almond shaped and the colour of summer blooms.

It was almost as though she were a stranger to him.

Her face was passive as he approached, so passive that it made his heart skip a beat. _It can't be her_ , he told himself. _It isn't her. It was all a dream. Even if it were her, what's to say that she even knows you exist? You imagined it all. It wasn't real._

Tyrion Lannister was there, standing beside the Dragon Queen. When Jon reached the foot of the throne, he stepped down and greeted him.

"Good to see you again, bastard," he grinned, waddling cheerfully over to shake Jon's hand. "It's been a while. I hear you found what you were looking for."

Ser Davos coughed angrily at the Imp's tone, but was silent at a glance from Jon.

"And what was that? Remind me, it was a long time ago."

Tyrion chuckled.

"Not at all. As I recall you joined the Night's Watch searching to rise above your station and prove yourself a man of honour." His green eye shone mischievously. "I see you were successful."

Jon tried to smile back, but it was very difficult. He couldn't concentrate on anything but the violet eyes, blank and empty as she stared down at him, face as still as carved marble.

"I didn't ask to be made King," Jon stated simply, "A fact that I hope Queen Daenerys will consider before asking me to bend the knee."

There was a stagnant pause in which the only sound was Ghost, breathing heavily behind Jon's shoulder.

"Leave us," the Queen said. Jon's insides shivered. She had the same voice – the same soft, lyrical voice that hid an undertone of quiet steel. He remembered what it felt like to hear that voice breathing his name like a prayer, and his stomach twisted unpleasantly, as though it were about to heave.

The Imp looked mildly confused.

"Your Grace, who – "

"Leave us," she said again, more forcefully, and her pale lilac eyes flashed dangerously. "I wish to speak with Lord Stark alone."

"King Stark, Your Grace," Ser Davos corrected, bowing respectfully but frowning, nonetheless. "Jon Stark was chosen King in the North, and there isn't anybody in Westeros who can un-choose him, regardless of what you might wish."

"Mind your tongue, Seaworth," the Imp warned. "You are speaking to-"

"Out!" the Queen commanded, furious, and if flames had erupted from her clenched fists Jon would hardly have been surprised. "All of you! Guards as well!"

The Unsullied bristled angrily. The man to the left of the throne spoke up, his words heavily slurred by the Gischari accent.

"You Grace, how do you know that you can trust –"

"Lord Tyrion vouches for this man," the Queen interrupted, nostrils flared, "is that not enough?"

"My Queen," the Imp frowned, "with all due respect Lord Snow was only a boy when I last met him. There is no way of knowing what sort of a man he has become."

 _I am still only a boy,_ Jon thought hazily, _a boy who dreams of a girl that can never be his._

He glanced again at Ser Davos, who swallowed whatever he had been about to say in Jon's defence.

"If you don't trust me," Jon said, his heart racing but his voice thankfully steady, "you can take my wolf. Ser Davos will attest that he is as dear to me as anything in this world. If I prove false, kill him." He paused. "Well… you can try, at any rate."

The Unsullied warrior was still glaring at Jon, but Tyrion looked convinced. He nodded his misshapen head at the Queen, who nodded sharply back.

"It is a fair exchange," she decreed, "if Lord Stark harms me, kill his wolf, and take his head. You can send it back to Winterfell in a box. Are you satisfied?" She turned to meet Jon's gaze, and he found himself staring once again into the depths of those violet eyes. They were Dany's eyes, and yet not, for while the Dany of his dreams had been soft and gentle and wise beyond her years, the eyes of the Dragon Queen were hard as Valyrian steel and as brittle as ice. "I am trusting you with my life, Ser," she said, and her voice was stern and commanding.

Jon bowed, deeply, but did not kneel.

"I am no knight, Your Grace. Only a bastard."

If he had expected a reaction from the Dragon Queen, he was mistaken. She never flinched, she never blinked, but continued to fix him with that icy stare.

"Leave us," she said again, and this time she was met with no opposition. One by one, the Unsullied warriors filed out of the hall behind Jon's small entourage of Lords and knights. Last to leave was Tyrion, who glanced over his shoulder as he tottered awkwardly away. As he reached the giant bronze doors at the end of the hall, he turned again and frowned at Jon.

"The Direwolf?"

Jon nodded. For some reason, he almost didn't want Ghost to leave. He didn't want to be left alone with this Dragon Queen, this woman of ethereal grace who reminded him so starkly of Dany, and yet _couldn't be_. He wasn't sure that he could take it. But he ran his hands through Ghost's fur and commanded him to leave, nonetheless.

"Go with him, Ghost."

Without needing to be told twice, the direwolf bounded after the Imp and followed him out of the hall, trotting eagerly in his footsteps. If Jon had been in any sort of mood to find humour in a situation, he might have laughed at the sight of the half-sized man being followed by the giant wolf, who towered over him, easily twice his height.

And then they were alone.

Jon took a deep breath and turned to face the Queen.

But the Queen had vanished. In her place was a young girl, wide-eyed and frightened looking, with hunched shoulders and an expression of deep uncertainty etched onto her slim face.

"Jon?" she breathed, and Jon's insides trembled to hear her speak his name.

"Dany?" he whispered back, barely daring to hope. It couldn't be, it wasn't –

It was.

 **(IK it seems kind of implausible that Jon and Dany haven't figured out who the other is before they meet for this first time. It would make sense if I had written the whole fic, I promise! For now let's just say that Jon doesn't necessarily associate 'Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Queen of the Andals and the First Men etc etc' with his imaginary friend Dany, and vice-versa.)**

Dany leapt down off the dais with a strangled sob and launched herself at Jon, who caught her just in time. Despite her size, she was powerful, and Jon had to fight to save himself from being bowled over.

"It's you," she mumbled, her face buried in his neck and her arms digging uncomfortably into his waist, "it's you, it's you…"

"You're real," he gasped back, his head swimming and his eyes blinking back tears. "By the gods, you're _real._ " He didn't ever want her to let go of him, but almost immediately she stepped away.

"What happened?" she demanded, and Jon was dazed to see that there were tears welling in her eyes, too. "I thought you were dead! It's been _months_ Jon, do you have any idea how – "

"I'm sorry," he interrupted, and instinctively reached out to grab her arm. He wasn't sure who he was steadying, himself or her. "I didn't mean, that is… It's a long story. I – "

But before he could explain himself, her arms were around him again.

"I don't care," she insisted, "I don't care what happened. It's you, and you're here, and you're real, and – "

Jon couldn't help himself. Without thinking he leaned down and kissed her full on the mouth, biting her bottom lip and bringing her body closer to his. He didn't stop to consider what it meant or how it would seem; he only knew that if he didn't have her now, when his blood was thick with desire and his mind still reeling with shock, he would lose his nerve and drive himself mad with want of her. He hadn't expected her response, or her sharp intake of breath as she opened her mouth for him and he tasted her for the first time. He _definitely_ hadn't expected her to lean in to him and slide her hands up beneath the cloth of his tunic, her fingertips burning like molten gold against his bare skin, but now that she had, it only made him want her all the more.

He took a step back, but didn't let go.

"Daenerys," he whispered, and the name felt alien on his tongue, " _Daenerys Targaryen_. I knew you were lying about your name."

She laughed, and he felt it reverberate through him like a tremor in the earth.

"No you didn't!"

"I did, too! Your mouth always twitches a little when you're hiding something!"

"It does not!"  
"Yes it does!"

"Well, you always tense your shoulders right before – "

He kissed her again, hoisting her up into his arms and spinning her round as he did so. Breathlessly, she folded her arms around his neck and it seemed to Jon as though they were melting together, becoming one, sharing one space and one breath and one life. It was almost as though he had been asleep for all of his life, and was only just now waking up to see the first dawn breaking over the edge of the horizon. _Gods_ , he wanted her, more than he had ever wanted anything in all his life.

Far too soon for Jon's liking, she extracted her tongue from his and leaned back, with their foreheads slightly touching.

"We should talk."

"No, we shouldn't," Jon gasped. His eyes were closed but he could feel himself hardening beneath his britches. He knew that Dany could feel it too, but _gods_ , in that moment he didn't care. As he spoke, her laugher ticked his face and all he could think about was the feel of her in his arms and the taste of her lips and _gods_ if her mouth tasted that good then what about -

"About the _kingdom_."

"Ah," he opened his eyes and put her down, "I see. The Lords of Westeros will be expecting us to come to some sort of agreement."

Dany grimaced.

"I don't suppose that you'd surrender your title and bend the knee?"

"No."

"I thought not." Gently, she stepped out of his arms and strode over to the window. Jon was pleased to see that her hair was looking distinctly more ruffled and less shiny than it had been when he'd first approached, and a lot more like how he was used to seeing it. His favourable mood failed him, however, when he saw the look on Dany's face. Her brows were lowered dangerously, and Jon wasn't sure if she was angry, frustrated, or simply upset.

"It's not my decision to make," he argued, although in his heart he knew that even if it were, the outcome would be the same. "Too many northerners have died fighting for their freedom, and they fought because they had faith that I would deliver it to them. Reeds, Glovers, Umbers, Karstarks… I cannot let them have died in vain."

"And what about _my_ armies?" she hissed, and for a heartbeat she was the Dragon Queen again, blazing with an all-consuming anger and smoking with a simmering rage. "What about _my_ loyal subjects? The slaves that have bled and died for me, the Dothraki that followed me across the poison water and laid down their lives to see me Queen? Ser Barristan, Aggo and Jhogo and – " she broke off, and Jon knew which name she had missed off the list. He swallowed.

"Daario."

Dany nodded mutely, and turned back towards the window. Jon couldn't think of anything to say to comfort her, and he wasn't all that sure in that moment that he wanted to. Instead, he let her finish.

"Men have fought and bled for me as surely as they have bled for you. They hailed me as heir to the Iron Throne and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. All seven of them." There was no mistaking the edge to her voice.

"They are not mine to give," Jon protested, casting about for a way to make her _understand_. "You've never been to the North, Your Grace, but its people are loyal to the point of stubbornness. The Starks have held the North for over eight thousand years, and aren't about to stop now. You can go to war with us if you like - we don't have enough men to defend ourselves against three dragons and an army of Unsullied. But if you intend to rule the North, then you will need a Stark as your ally." He shrugged. "The Starks have been loyal to the crown for centuries, regardless of which House held it. We were rewarded for that loyalty with my father's head on a pike. The North will never again slave itself to the whims of Southerners. I may have been crowned King, but the moment that I betray my people, they will find another. I am far from the only Stark with the ability to govern the North. My brother Bran, my sister Sansa…" He fixed her with an icy glare, and held it. "If you want to rule the North, you will have to slaughter us all."

For the first time, Daenerys Targaryen looked at him – _really looked._ Jon could tell that she was trying to reconcile the memory of the boy that she had known with the truth of the living, breathing man that met her here today. He could tell because he was trying to do the same. On one hand, there was Dany, the girl he had met in a dream and poured his soul out to, as she had to him; on the other was the Dragon Queen, who had stories told of her ruthlessness and ferocity and her devastating beauty. He wasn't sure that he could tell which side was the more real and which was the lie.

"Marriage," she blurted, and Jon blinked.

" _What_?"

Daenerys blushed, and Jon's lip curled. _Dany_ , he thought, _definitely Dany_.

"It's the only solution. I can't let you have the North, and you can't give it to me. So we share it." Her blush deepened. "Not all of it, though. The Iron Throne is mine, and mine alone. But if you were King in the North and I was your Queen…" she trailed off. "Well, that way, everyone is happy."  
It suddenly dawned on Jon what she was suggesting.

"Wait," his shoulders tensed, "you mean…?"

Dany nodded.

"It's the only way. It's that, or we fight for it. And you can't win."

"So those are my options," Jon found himself grinning, "Marry you or face inevitable defeat at the hands of ten thousand angry Eunuchs? I'm not sure which of those choices sounds the more terrifying."

"Shut up," Dany hit him. Hard. Jon was surprised to find that it actually hurt. He said as much, and she went to hit him again, but he was ready for her and caught her wrist in his hand. Then he was kissing her, long and slow and gloriously tender, and it was like there was nothing else in the world except her, and the tickle of her hair on his neck. When he was done, he held her close to his chest and didn't let her go.

"It's an option," he promised, "but it's not our decision, is it? If either of us fails to win the support of our Lords, then it's all for naught. The North would still cry for war."

"Not for naught," Dany told him, and kissed him again. "Definitely not for naught."

The bronze doors at the end of the hall swung open with an almighty creaking sound, and Tyrion Lannister walked towards them, Ser Davos on his heels.

"Your Grace," he started to say, then stopped as he noticed Jon's arms wrapped tightly around her waist. Jon made to step away, but Daenerys held him close, and he felt stronger.

"A marriage," she said confidently, and Jon was amused to see that all trace of blush had miraculously vanished from her cheeks, "would it work?"

The Imp raised an eyebrow, but made no comment.

"It might, if handled correctly. Your Grace, there are more pressing matters – "

Daenerys raised an eyebrow back, as if challenging him to respond.

"Can they wait?"

"Not really, Your Grace," Ser Davos explained, talking quickly. "You see – "  
Jon gave him a look at exactly the same time that Dany raised a hand for silence.

"Summon my small council. I will hear it from them."

Tyrion still looked as though he was biting back his own tongue, but managed to maintain a dignified silence as he waddled away. Ser Davos lingered, seemingly unsure of where to look.

"Your Grace," he addressed Jon, "Should we perhaps take our leave? These are matters that concern – "

"I must not have made myself clear," Daenerys interrupted. "My small council, including yourself and King Stark. You are, after all, my greatest allies."

Jon thought that it was a testament to the man's incredible resolve that he did not lose his composure.

"Very good, Your Grace," he bowed, and hurried after Lord Tyrion, looking for all the world as though nothing were amiss.

"He seems a good Hand," Dany mused, watching him leave, "wherever did you find him?"

"Smuggling onions to Stannis Baratheon."

Dany stared at him, then giggled.

" _What_?"

"I'll tell you later," Jon promised, taking her by the arm and following after their two Hands. "For now, the kingdom awaits."


	2. Chapter 1

**Oh um okay wow. I wasn't expecting a response that quickly. I guess you can have another chapter as a reward for you wonderful feeback :)**

 **FYI this is what would be CH1, if I was actually writing this fic in a logical order, which seemingly I am not. This is the first time that Jon and Dany 'meet' (as opposed to their actual first meeting in the previous chapter which is chronologically later... Okay I'm just confising myself here XD). It's May 297AC, so Dany has been in Pentos with Illyrio for only a couple of weeks. With her birthday being 25th May, that makes her only 12 years old and Jon only 13 (Birthday August 25th). Adorable childlish bickering to ensue.**

 **Enjoy!**

 **SXx**

* * *

6th May 297AC

Dany dreamed of the red door again.

She was standing just outside it, her hand outstretched to grasp the handle, the sounds of the city echoing behind her like the murmur of an enormous sleeping beast. The water of the canals lapped around her bare feet, warmed by the sun and thick with the filth of men and beasts. Eagerly, she reached out and touched the painted wood, feeling the summer heat trapped in the heavy planks escaping up her skin and into her blood. It was like the whole world was on fire.

"Are you going in?"

Dany whirled around, her heart racing. A boy was leaning against the wall of the alley, his arms folded across his chest and his eyes narrowed. She hadn't heard him approach, so he must have been standing there for some time. The thought unnerved Dany almost as much as the dark grey of his narrowed eyes.

She nodded, then shook her head. "I don't think that I can."

The boy frowned. "Why not?"  
"Every time I try to go in I wake up."

It was true. Dany had been dreaming of the big house with the red door ever since she and her brother had been forced out of it eight years ago. Practically penniless, they'd had no choice but to rely on the hospitality of others, and follow the good will of the Lords of Essos wherever it went. From Braavos to Myr, from Myr to Tyrosh, to Qohor and Volantis and Lys, on and on in a never-ending cycle of change and uncertainty. And so Dany dreamed, of the red door, and the life that she could never have.

The boy seemed to sense the change in her. He kicked off the wall and walked over to her. Dany flinched away as he drew closer, but he made no move to touch her. Instead, he reached for the handle.

"How about I try?" the door opened smoothly at his touch, and Dany's insides twisted as she watched the stranger step through the frame and into the dusty courtyard. Tentatively, she followed, pinching herself to make sure that she was still dreaming. She was. The place was just as she remembered it, down to the dry stone floor covered in a fine white dust that stuck to her feet and got stuck between her toes. Viserys used to curse the stuff, but Dany loved it, the way that the earth used to bake in the glare of the afternoon sun and become almost unbearably hot to the touch. She used to run over it, laughing as the servants shouted at her to slow down or put shoes on, and Viserys fumed silently in the corner. For those few moments of happiness, it was almost worth the consequences of waking the dragon.

The boy was still watching her, standing in the shade underneath the lemon tree and looking at her with a curious expression on his face.

"What is this place?" he asked.

Dany tried to answer, but couldn't quite find the words. She wanted to say "home", but for some reason the word stuck in her throat. Eventually she managed to mumble, "I used to live here. A long time ago."

Slowly, the boy walked around the courtyard, running his hands over the pillars and looking up at the windows of the upstairs rooms. He was taller than Dany, but not much older. Like Viserys, he was lean and slender, but that was where the resemblance ended. While her brother was gaunt and wraith-like, this boy was graceful and moved with confidence, despite his youth. His hair was dark, as dark as his eyes, and as dark as the flame-scarred remains of burnt charcoal.

"Which one was your room?" he asked her.

She pointed at her window – the in the eastern corner, closest to the lemon tree. When she was younger she used to lean out of her window at night and try to reach the upper most leaves, but could never quite stretch far enough. Now, though, she could probably reach without even standing on the balls of her feet. Dany longed to rush up the stairs again and lock herself in the room, her sanctuary, the one place in the world that she had ever felt safe, but she found herself unable to move. It was as though the strange boy was holding her in place, tethering her to the same spot with nothing but the intensity of his gaze.

Dany cleared her throat.

"Who are you?" she demanded, curling her hands into fists and standing up straighter, as Viserys always instructed. "What are you doing in my dream? You don't belong here."

The boy raised an eyebrow.

"Your dream?" he scoffed, "this is _my_ dream. I don't have to explain myself to you."

"This is my house!"

"I let you in!"

"You're trespassing!"

"Trespassing? In my own dream?"

"It's not your dream!"  
"It is too!"

As they had been arguing, they had moved closer and closer together until they stood only feet apart. As she caught her breath, Dany took a tentative step back and surveyed her companion. He might have been more than half a head taller than her, but his face hadn't yet lost the boyish softness of youth, and try as she might Dany couldn't quite bring herself to be frightened of him.

"Agree to disagree?" she asked. "If I'm right and this is my dream, then you can't be real. You're just a figment of my imagination, and it's pointless to argue with someone that doesn't exist. The same goes for you, if you're right."

The boy pondered this for a moment.

"Alright," he said, and held out his hand. Hesitantly, she took it. It didn't feel imaginary. It felt cold and solid and very, very real – far more real than anything else she had ever dreamed before.

"You know," the boy said after letting go of her hand, "Old Nan says that you everyone you meet in a dream is someone that you've met before. She told me once that the minds of men aren't quick or clever enough to create faces. Only the gods can do that."

That can't be true, Dany thought. The boy's pallid complexion, along with his outlandish dress, reminded her starkly of the stories that her brother always told her of dark stone towers and blue-grey mountains and columns of armoured knights: stories of Westeros. She'd remember meeting someone from Westeros. There hadn't been many over the years, and she was certain that this boy wasn't one of them. She'd made him up so that she could get through the red door and feel the hot earth on her bare feet and watch birds nesting in the shade beneath the lemon tree. He was just part of the dream.

"Do you have a name?" he asked her, and Dany thought that he looked more than a little curious. She didn't blame him. She was wearing what she always found herself wearing in her dreams: rough woven tunic and tattered britches, with her hair hanging lose and tangled about her waist. When she pictured herself, she always looked like this – poor and filthy and free from responsibility. For a heartbeat, Dany considered telling this imaginary stranger her true name: Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone. That was how Viserys introduced her when they met new people. But for some reason, Dany didn't want to admit her true name, partly because it didn't really _feel_ like her true name – it felt false. Like a farce, or a lie that she was telling herself. She didn't feel like a Princess, or a member of a noble house. Back here, in the courtyard of the big house with the red door, she was a child again.

"I'm Dany," said Dany.

"Jon," said the strange boy, "are you highborn?"

"Highborn?"

"You know, the daughter of a Lord and Lady."

"Oh," Dany frowned. She supposed that she probably was, but didn't want to admit to it. "No, I'm not." Besides, a lord and a king were not the same thing. Not by a long shot.

"Me neither," said Jon. There was an awkward pause.

" _Are_ you Westerosi?" Dany asked. She thought that he must be, although she couldn't be certain. His accent could just as easily be from somewhere else, from the Grey Waste or the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai, so little did she know about them.

The boy nodded.

"Aren't you?"

"I've never been there," Dany said wistfully, thinking of Dragonstone and King's Landing and the stony shores and dense forests of the Stormlands. _One day_. "My brother has, though. He was born in Westeros. We left, though. Before I was old enough to remember anything."

"Where do you live now?"

"Pentos."

"Is that where we are now?"

Dany shook her head.

"This is Braavos, where I lived as a child. We had to keep moving around."

Jon's eyes narrow.

"Why?"

"You ask a lot of questions!" Dany said defensively. She didn't want to tell the boy the truth about her family, about the Usurper and the Kingslayer and the assassins that Viserys always talked about. The stories of them filled her every waking moment, ever-present in her brother's haunted expression and the intensity of his fear. She would be damned if they haunted her dreams as well. For a moment, Dany just wanted to pretend that she was free to be a child again, and she couldn't do that if she was forced to spill her secrets to an imaginary stranger.

"I'm sorry if I caused offence," Jon blinked, "I was just curious. I've lived in the North my whole life."

"The North?" the dust in Dany's mouth suddenly tasted like ash. "So you are pledged to the Starks?"

Jon's grey eyes flashed dangerously.

"I'm not a Stark," he spat, "and I never will be."  
Dany was taken aback by his reaction. She couldn't imagine what might have caused it.

"I'm sorry," she apologised, and the heat rose in her cheeks, "I don't know a lot about Westeros. I only know what my brother says, and he says that the Starks are traitors. They serve the Usurper."

"The Usurper?" Jon blinked slowly, "You mean King Robert? He is no usurper. He is king."

"He stole the Iron Throne from the Targaryens," Dany argues. _He stole the Iron Throne from Father, and one day Viserys will take it back, gods be willing._

"He rebelled against the Mad King," Jon growled, "and the Starks fought with him. If they hadn't, Aerys would have burned Westeros to the ground."

"That's a lie!"

"No it isn't! Ask anyone you like – King Aerys was as mad as a rabid wolf when he died. Rebelling against him was the only honourable thing to do."

Dany glared at him. She was about to argue back when she remembered what she'd said about arguing against her own subconscious. Besides, even if he were real, Dany doubted very much if he could be blamed for being misled. A common Westerosi beggar boy could hardly be trusted to know anything about wars that had happened a long time before he was old enough to have been aware of them, and if Dany's precarious childhood had taught her anything, it was that rumours could often be deceptive.

"Agree to disagree," she muttered, and she held out her hand as Jon had done before. That made him chuckle. Dany was taken aback – his face had been so solemn that she hadn't expected that he would smile so easily.

"You're on," he grinned, "although if we keep going at this rate we'll have more things that we don't agree on than we do. That's hardly a good start."

The corner of Dany's mouth twitched. She hadn't smiled, really smiled, that is, for what felt like years. She wondered if the boy knew what it was like to live a lie the way that she did, to constantly pretend to be someone that he was not for the sake of appearances. Somehow, she thought that he might. Maybe that was why he looked so serious all the time.

"There must be something that we agree on. What do you enjoy doing?"

Jon's brow furrowed.

"Sword training. Riding. Playing games with my brothers."

That didn't seem very promising. Although a passable rider, Dany had never held a sword in her life, and Viserys was far too old to join Dany in the games that she wanted to play. She cast about for something else.

"Do you like the sea? Everyone likes the sea."

The boy shook his head. "I've never seen it. And not everyone likes it. Some people get horribly sick because of it."

That was true, Dany thought. The Dothraki at least despised the poison water – that much she had picked up on her travels. Maybe her attraction to the ocean was unusual, although she couldn't see why. Standing on the prow of a ship, skipping over the waves, was one of the few times that Dany ever felt truly free.

"Reading, then. You can read, can't you?"

Jon scoffed. "Of course I can read. Just because I'm not a Lord that doesn't mean that I'm a fool."

"Good," Dany felt relieved that she had at least found one thing that they had in common. "What do you like reading?"

"Anything, really." Jon shrugged. As he spoke, he sat lazily down under the branches of Dany's lemon tree, his legs sprawled out lazily in front of him and his back arched against the trunk of the tree. Dany followed suit, and sat quickly down a few feet in front of him. "History, I guess. Dragons and heroes and all of that. I prefer being told stories, though. Old Nan is full of them, but you shouldn't believe half of what she says – snarks and grumpkins and the rest." He laughed again, short and soft, almost like he was afraid of being overheard.

"My brother tells me stories, sometimes," Dany admitted. Sometimes the stories that he told were terrible and left her shaking, but sometimes he told her glorious, tragic stories about brave knights and beautiful princesses and love and lust and betrayal. "I don't know if I believe them, though. He says that in Westeros there is a wall, five-hundred feet high, made of solid ice."

Jon gave her an amused sort of look.

"I don't know where he got his stories from, but you shouldn't listen to him. The Wall is nearly seven-hundred feet high, and over three-hundred miles long."

"It's _true_?"

"Of course it's true!" Jon snorted, "The Wall has stood for thousands and thousands of years, since the time of the Long Night."

"But how? And why?"

"No one knows," Jon said mysteriously, "but Old Nan says that the Wall was first built by the First Men to guard the realm against the Others."

Dany was mystified, but at the mention of the _others_ her spine tingled and she suddenly felt cold.

"What are they?"

"Creatures of death," Jon frowned, "creatures of ice and decay that fought the First Men and nearly defeated them."

"But they didn't."

"No. They were pushed back and the Wall was built to prevent them from ever coming back."

Dany was perplexed. "But surely a wall made of ice wouldn't last very long. It would just… melt away."

Jon smiled wryly. "I don't think you understand how cold it can be this far North."

He was right – she couldn't ever imagine a place where it was cold enough for ice to remain frozen for a week, let alone thousands of years. She shivered at the very thought of it.

"But what happened to the Others?"

Jon shrugged.

"Who knows? Maybe they never even existed. It's all just a story."

"But what about the men that guard the wall? The Night's Watch? If there aren't any Others, what are they guarding against?"

"Wildlings, mostly. Raiders and rapists who kill and steal from our people."

Dany said nothing. The Wildlings that Jon described sounded not at all unlike the Dothraki warriors that she had seen in Pentos. They had frightened her, but Viserys had been scornful, calling them _barbarians_ and _filthy animals_. She could tell that he was planning something, though. He kept having late night meetings with Illyrio in his study, and one night Dany heard him distinctly refer to 'those brown-skinned horse savages'. Whatever it was he had in mind, Dany wasn't sure that she liked it, especially if it involved the Dothraki.

Jon was looking at her. He was smirking slightly, and his grey eyes shone.

"What else does your brother say about Westeros?"

 _Too much to tell_ , Dany thought. _Green hills and flowered grasslands and brave knights with flowing banners. The Red Keep shining in the sunset, the smell of the flames as King's Landing burned._

"He says that it's beautiful," she admitted, and she hoped beyond hope that it was true. She looked to Jon for confirmation, but he only shrugged.

"I suppose that it is. When you've lived somewhere all your life, I guess you don't notice it after a while."

Dany was about to open her mouth to ask another question, but a sudden jolt of sickness overcame her and she leapt to her feet, alarmed. Jon followed suit, looking concerned.

"Are you alright?"

She nodded mutely, clutching her stomach. Her head was beginning to spin and her eyesight was starting to fade a little.

"I think… I must be waking up…"  
Jon grinned.

"That must be difficult, considering this isn't even your dream!"

Dany hit him, but of course it didn't hurt. She pinched herself, and that didn't hurt either, so she had to still be dreaming. She looked up and Jon, but it seemed to her as though he was drifting further and further away from her, like clouds in a strong wind.

"Will I see you again?" she asked.

"I don't know," he shrugged. "I hope so, though."

 _I hope so too_ , Dany thought, as she woke up to sunlight steaming through her windows and Viserys banging on her door, shouting for her to get dressed and come downstairs immediately. He had a surprise for her.


End file.
